


Remember, Remember

by rosetwopointoh



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Angst, Before the Omega-4 Relay, F/M, Loneliness, Romance, first, set to music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:59:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosetwopointoh/pseuds/rosetwopointoh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reach and flexibility have nothing on sparks--or loneliness.</p><p>Now no longer a one-shot!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dust to Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This one utterly absolutely DEMANDED out out out and wouldn't let me stop writing it until it was done, so here.
> 
> "Dust to Dust" by The Civil Wars is integral to this piece: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yJbmXvBJhCs

_It's not your eyes_  
 _It's not what you say_  
 _It's not your laughter_  
 _That gives you away_  
 _You're just lonely  
_ _You've been lonely, too long_

“Garrus, I…” Shepard swallowed, her hands tense against her body. Her vitals were skittering all over his visor and he reached up and turned it off, took it off, set it down. He had her in front of him, between his broad, three-fingered, talon-ended hands. He didn’t need it between them, too.

“Shepard.” He reached up to touch her cheek, thought better of it, removed his gloves, set them by his visor. She didn’t miss any of his movements. He realized he was revealing himself to her in ways he never had. Barehanded, now, he approached her skin again, hesitant. His hand, palm a scant inch from her cheek, quivered in question. Her eyes fluttered closed and she turned towards it; he let out his breath as his skin touched hers. Acceptance. Then there was a gentle weight in his hand as she leaned into the contact. Want. Need, even.

When they’d fumbled into both acknowledging the heated tension between them, him bringing up something awkward about taking a tiebreaker to his quarters for another kind of stress relief and her taking his phrasing about _reach_ and _flexibility_ and saying something about testing her flexibility instead and him being stupid and not realizing she wasn’t talking about sparring… he’d never thought they’d end up here. Whether it was because one of them would get their heads back on straight or, well, maybe they’d go and die, first—but here they were, ready to go through the relay to where absolutely nothing but the statistically very, very high likelihood of death if not absolute annihilation awaited them, and they were together, out of their armor, in her quarters, and…

_Oh, you're acting your thin disguise_  
 _All your perfectly delivered lines_  
 _They don't fool me  
_ _You've been lonely, too long_

She’d been in the gym all afternoon and into the evening, pounding her body mercilessly, her outlets a punching bag, a treadmill, the bag again. It took Thane and Tali both to coax her out, Garrus too afraid he was the cause to try. She was soaked in sweat, her red hair plastered to her skull, and Dr. Chakwas was waiting outside, offering solace in the form of a painkiller, a concentrated rehydration beverage, and a mild sedative. Shepard had washed the former down with the drink, scowling at the taste, and reluctantly pocketed the latter when Chakwas had put it in her palm and folded her fingers around it.

EDI had unlocked the door for him as soon as the elevator had arrived at her quarters, intoning gently, “The commander has ordered you to have full access, Vakarian,” and then, “She has requested I initiate maximum privacy protocols upon your arrival. Logging you out.”

And so now he was here, the door locked behind him, Shepard fresh from the shower, standing wrapped in a fluffy towel, barefoot, the light from the aquarium playing over her skin. And his visor and his gloves were off and he was touching her, and he realized she was shaking.

“We don’t have to, Shepard,” he said, quietly, realizing his chest was aching in a way it never had.

“Riley,” she choked out, her hand coming up to cover his, the other reaching out to touch his mandible. “Please.”

“Riley,” he echoed, and her eyes closed and the shaking got worse, intensifying, like tectonic activity approaching its crest. _Shit. Fuck. Shit. What’s happening?_

And then he realized; she was crying, trying to lock it in, trying not to let it show, but when his free hand came up to touch her shoulder it broke free and suddenly she was on him, plastered against his hide, the tiny quivers opening into huge gasps that slowly ebbed. He found himself cradling her against him, idly noting he was holding her towel against her skin.

_Let me in the wall_  
 _You've built around_  
 _We can light a match  
_ _And burn it down_

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, later, slowly peeling herself off of him and tucking her towel back around her body. Her face was red, eyes bloodshot.

“No,” he murmured to her, his subvocals trilling in his need to soothe her. “Come here.”

She followed him wordlessly to the couch, sat beside him. It was awkward, finding a way to sit together; she needed him against her, needed to feel his warmth thawing her out. Eventually he propped himself up against the armrest and she laid along his side against the back of the couch, her legs crossing over at his waist, and with an extra pillow under her head it was… wonderful.

 _Cuddling,_ Garrus’s brain identified. Turians didn’t… cuddle. But here he was, cuddling with a mostly-naked Shepard on her couch, and it was beyond what he’d hoped. His fingers traced meaningless symbols on her upper back, never ceasing as soon as he figured out it eased how her hands gripped him, softened the tension in her spine, even coaxed a little sigh out of her lungs, a nuzzle against his cowl.

He felt himself slowly slipping into a happy floating-place, entirely content, when she stirred. He opened his eyes and found hers looking at him, peering closely at his face.

“Garrus?”

“Mm?” Had he been in the company of other turians, he would have been ashamed of the wild trill of his subvocals; they were possessive: _mine, mine, don’t you dare._

She climbed over him and off the couch, still clutching her towel close to her, and backed away from the couch, being careful to avoid the low table. Then she stopped, just out of arms’ reach, and bit the insides of her lips, nearly pulling them out of existence, just for a moment.

And then she shed the towel, slowly, opening it and letting it fall, looking down at it as it left her hands to make a semi-circle around her feet. It took another long moment—and Garrus’s low rumble—to make her look up again, to meet his gaze. His mandibles were fluttering, and while his eyes flickered down her skin, they raced back up to hers again in record time.

Her gut twisted; the first time Kaidan had seen her, he’d been silent, too, silence born of awe, and then he’d been on his knees in front of her, touching her, letting his hands glide up the outsides of her legs, over her hips, to her breasts, thumbing their tips before he kissed her, picked her up, and carried her to bed to do it again, again, again.

 _But this is Garrus,_ her mind nudged, gently. _He doesn’t know what he’s doing. And neither do you._

_Let me hold your hand_  
 _And dance 'round and 'round the flames_  
 _In front of us  
_ _Dust to dust_

_Spirits,_ his mind swirled, hazy. There was nothing turian about this woman, no spurs, no plates, and while her waist was layered with hard muscle it wasn’t sinuously curved, but when it came down to it—man, woman, and nothing else—it didn’t matter. He _wanted._  

No, _needed_ , and when he reached out towards her and she stepped closer and his hands, his bare hands, thank the skies he’d taken his gloves off already, his bare hands touched her skin, slithered to her hips, and her breath stuttered and suddenly a new scent teased his nostrils, one that made his mandibles flutter further and his subvocals strain, he thought she needed, too.

She stood patiently, her hands roaming over his skull plates, his fringe, his shoulders, while he explored, nosed, inspected, trying to understand human skin and hair and shape. _Belly button, nipple, breast_ , she told him, sometimes chuckling, sometimes sighing.

When his hands narrowed in at the hidden shapes between her thighs she gripped his wrists, gently. “You’re still dressed.”

“That’s true.”

“You also haven’t kissed me yet.”

“Oh?”

“It’s usually considered polite to kiss before—during—well, you know.”

“I see.” She let go of his wrists and he slid out of his tunic; she stepped back so he could stand and he slid out of his pants and underclothes and then he was as she was, bare. He’d never been nervous before, but he’d never been with _her_ before, either. But as it was it didn’t seem to matter, because she was on her tiptoes and he bent down to her, and though he had no idea how to manage this kissing thing, her lips were on his mouth plates and the little sound that vibrated from her chest to his did as much for him as the touch of her mouth to his.

They broke apart and Garrus slid one hand behind her head. “We do this,” he said, softly, and rested his forehead against hers and hummed, trying to convey everything— _everything—_ he felt through his subvocals, and knew from her answering gasp that she knew, somehow.

He straightened and she settled back on her feet and smiled at him, then turned to the bed, large, fluffy, inviting.

“A sight better than your cot, I think?”

“You’d be right.”

And then she was in his arms, and he took the three long turian-steps to the mattress and set her down.

_You've held your head up  
_ _You've fought the fight_

He lay beside her and she reached up, at his level now, her fingers skimming gently over his markings, the scars, unerringly finding the dull ache in the damaged mandible and rhythmically pulsing two fingertips over it. He suddenly felt bare, vulnerable, open, her hands delving in and seeking out his pain.

_You bear the scars  
_ _You've done your time_

“Garrus,” she whispered, sounding like her heart was breaking, and gently rested her forehead against his and— _hummed,_ an incredibly close approximation of his vocalization, and then her hum broke into a muted cry and he realized it was for him and what else was he supposed to do but hold her face in his hands and kiss her?

_Listen to me  
_ _You've been lonely, too long_

And then it was something new, her tongue against the edges of his plates, and after a moment’s hesitation he let his slide free to touch hers and she sighed. And then her hands were sliding over his plates, touching, finding, seeking, and he discovered that his talons run gently up her spine made her shiver and almost moan in delight, over and over. And then she’d pushed him over, slightly, helped him sort out the pillows he needed for his fringe, and was giving him the same attention he’d given her, seeking out the edges of his plates, how his body worked. But when she found a good spot she used her mouth, too, and Garrus immediately filed that one away for use in the very near future.

She had bypassed his groin plates entirely, though, and he was getting… uncomfortable. “Shepard?”

“Riley.”

“Riley,” he echoed again. His voice sounded strained. “Need a little help.”

She stopped immediately and moved back up to his face. “What is it?”

“My plates need a little… persuading?”

She swallowed and looked uncertain. “I’m… uh. Fill me in?”

He reached for her hand and guided it down, wondering if perhaps human males were substantially different in this regard. He didn’t know—he’d focused purely on human women. He wondered if she’d done any research of her own and guessed maybe not.

“Here,” he said, his voice hitching as her fingers landed on his plates, and he knew she noticed a difference; there was definite heat, there, and they were shaped differently. She shifted down and let her fingers seek over him, and he groaned. And then there was something moist, hot, gentle, soft, probing over the edges, running along the sides, and he tensed, keening.

“Oh.”

“Indeed,” he muttered in reply before groaning again. Then he sighed in full-bodied relief as he felt them spreading of their own accord; Shepard sat back, and then the tell-tale fullness surged in his groin and his cock slid free.

Shepard’s eyebrows shot up. “…Oh.”

Garrus chuckled and gestured for her to come back up, brushing his forehead against hers and then kissing her. “My turn?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, simply moved down and let his tongue wrap around a nipple, and her breath hitched. He brushed the other with his mouth plates, taking it between them, careful to keep his teeth away, and she shuddered and whined beneath his touch.

When he reached her hips, nudging gently to encourage her to let him see the apex of her thighs, she didn’t react right away. He looked up to find her biting her lower lip and recognized it as hesitance.

“What is it?” he asked, softly, reaching up to hold her hand.

“Fuck, Garrus,” she replied, her voice twisting oddly in sorrow and need. “What if… what if I lose you?”

“You won’t,” he said, but he knew that there were so many ways she meant when she asked that question, and he knew that answer wasn’t enough, not really.

She’d already lost him once. There were two hims there, too. Garrus felt a thread of anger in his veins; he’d wanted to rip Kaidan apart for what he’d done to her. But Kaidan had no place in her bed—their bed—and he set that aside.

There was only Riley and Garrus, bathed in the dancing glow of the aquarium, and that was everything they needed. Shepard and Vakarian.

_Let me in the walls_  
 _You've built around_  
 _We can light a match  
_ _And burn them down_

Then she did widen her legs, jumping when one of his first movements was to nuzzle gently into her center and inhale her scent; she jumped again when his tongue slid out to taste, and when she couldn’t hold back her moan as his tongue flickered over her hidden bud, she found Garrus’s free hand with hers and gripped it tight, refusing to let go before he did. And he was never letting go.

_Let me hold your hand_  
 _And dance 'round and 'round the flames_  
 _In front of us  
_ _Dust to dust_

When he crawled back up her body, leaving her shuddering, shaking, hiccupping with barely-sated need—he had been determined to bring her to climax at least once _before_ , because he really wasn’t sure how this whole thing was going to work and she was going to get her release no matter what—she gripped him frantically, her hands scrabbling over his body, blunt nails scraping against his plates.

“Spirits, Riley, I need you,” he told her, tongue sliding up from her collarbone to her ear.

She whimpered in reply. “Please, _god,_ Garrus, _please, please._ I need…” She knew she was babbling, didn’t care; her mind was gone, driven out by her body’s cries for him, not his body but _him,_ Garrus Vakarian, all of him, every way she could. She didn’t know how else to explain it to him but to press her forehead to his while she keened and cried in unintelligible sounds, ones that sounded like music when his shrill harmonics joined.

_You're like a mirror, reflecting me  
_ _Takes one to know one, so take it from me_

He had reach, and she had flexibility, and they fit; they fit. They _fit_. Tears, real, honest-to-god tears streamed from the corners of her eyes to her hairline as he slid inside her, gently, slowly, letting her stretch to accommodate him. He kissed her as he did, saying things that weren’t translating but might not have translated anyway, keening underneath the sounds.

_You've been lonely  
_ _You've been lonely, too long_

When he thrust, her body threatened to shatter, over and over, until the end of time (which for all they knew could very well be tomorrow), and her cries and moans were met equally by the turian above her, within her, surrounded by her. He’d been lost, he realized, until he’d found her; lost in so many ways and now he’d not only found a mooring but he’d found a berth.

And Shepard… she sobbed as she came, as he found his own climax, bit gently into the muscle between her neck and shoulder, bathed the gentle wound. He’d found her, saved her, remembered her from life to death and back again, and now he’d given her something to remember, too.

_We've been lonely  
_ _We've been lonely, too long_


	2. Figuring It Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, apparently this story isn't a one-shot. Like at all. The bunnies get what they demand.

The second time they made love was fraught with terror-fueled amazement that they were both still alive, whole, only slightly battered, not Collected.

Garrus had found her staring blankly at her terminal, the CIC blipping almost soundlessly around her, everyone else long since gone off-duty. She hadn’t seen him or reacted to the elevator; when he crouched beside her, reached out to touch her cheek, her breath had come rapidly, for a moment, and then she’d reached for him and somehow the gentle, protective intent he’d come for her with had burst into flame. Somehow they half-carried each other to the elevator, managed to hit the button for her cabin, nearly fell out the elevator doors when they opened, peeling each other out of their clothes and stealing kisses and panting forehead-touches the entire way. “EDI, initiate—“

“Maximum privacy protocols initiated, Commander. Logging you out.”

Garrus had lifted her on to the back of the couch and knelt before her, her snug flightsuit unzipped and hanging free to give him access, hands holding her waist securely and his tongue snaking over, under, in. She was trying to get free of him, get his armor (why was he wearing armor?) off, get him under her or over her _inside_ of her but he refused, driving her insane with his mouth and tongue instead, and when finally her thrashing hit a spot which must have been bandaged under his armor and he stepped back, hissing, she scrabbled and slid off the couch and crawled to him. “Garrus, I’m sorry, I—“

“I was asking for that one,” he muttered, chuckling, but his breath was laced with pain.

They slowed, momentarily, to strip themselves bare and inspect each other carefully for injury. Garrus’s sensitive waist was bandaged, blue seeping through in specks on his side, and while Shepard’s skin weaves had knit her wounds closed, she still had bright scars that would linger for a few days. Shepard helped him lay comfortably before sliding down to use her curious fingers and sweeping tongue against his plates, and wasn’t startled by the appearance of his cock, this time; Garrus was in the midst of sighing in relief as it came free of the confines of his body when his eyes snapped open, his spine arching, at the sensation of something hot, smooth, strong sliding up his length from base to tip.

“Interesting,” he heard, vaguely, as his overheated brain tried to process what had just happened.

“Was.. was that your—“

“Tongue? Yup. Turians don’t go down on each other? Oh, of course not, teeth—“

Suddenly she was on her back beneath him, his talons pressing hard enough on her skin to leave tiny pinpricks of blood (but no more), his tongue swiping roughly along her neck from collarbone to earlobe, and she shuddered and groaned as he stumbled upon the sweet spot on her neck.

“Interesting,” he parroted, and nuzzled at it, his breath against her neck and skin and ear making her shiver and spread her legs, arching her spine, wanton, and then he was sliding inside of her and it was perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Each stroke delivered right to her core, the little rough spots and ridges bumping against her own.

It wasn’t long before they lay sprawled on her sheets, finally complete.

 

Yeoman Chambers wondered where the Commander was. She hadn’t come down for her coffee, and even if she’d be working in her quarters, she’d at least come down for coffee.

 _I’ll take her some,_ Kelly thought. She was still acutely aware of how near she’d been to death-by-Collectors and that it was only the Commander’s dogged persistence that got them out alive. A coffee delivery was the least she could do.

EDI’s voice chimed in the elevator when Kelly hit the button for the Commander’s quarters. “Commander Shepard has initiated maximum privacy protocols, Yeoman Chambers. I am afraid this includes the elevator.”

“The Commander has an open-door policy. Override—“

“You do not have necessary clearance to override, Yeoman Chambers.”

“Who does?”

“In the event of a potential medical emergency, Dr. Chakwas may override the protocols. While the Commander is not currently running at peak physical efficiency, there is no medical emergency present. Therefore, only the Commander may override the protocols. Additionally, Mr. Vakarian may bypass them.”

“ _Bypass_?”

“Mr. Vakarian is not subject to the visitation restriction.”

“EDI, the location of Mr. Vakarian?”

EDI was silent for a long moment. “Mr. Vakarian is usually in the main battery, Yeoman Chambers.”

“He’s not now,” Kasumi said from just outside the elevator, her sly voice twinkling. “Let them be, Kelly. And stop harassing EDI. She has to answer your questions, you know, but she’s not allowed to lie.”

“That is correct, Ms. Goto,” EDI said, almost sounding relieved.

Kelly sighed. “That’s all, EDI.”

“Logging you out, Yeoman Chambers.”

“Them?” Kelly asked Kasumi, who beckoned and disappeared back into the lounge. Kelly followed, frowning at the cup of coffee she carried.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Kasumi curled up on her preferred couch. “They’ve been circling each other since I’ve been here and it’s only gotten worse since the Collector ship. And someone _may_ have seen Garrus carrying a bottle of champagne to her quarters before we went through the relay.” Kasumi smiled, telling Kelly that there was no _someone may have_ about it.

Kelly took a cautious sip of the coffee, figuring someone might as well drink it. _Not bad, actually._ “Isn’t there something making turian-human… relationships… a bit difficult?”

“Didn’t you get that document Mordin sent to all of us?” Kasumi grinned, a bit wickedly. “And the Commander is made of sterner stuff than the rest of us combined, anyway.”

Kelly suddenly went thoughtful, and Kasumi wondered just who she was thinking about.


	3. Death of a Turian, or, Condiments and Insects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now with less angst and more fluff!

Garrus woke to the blue flicker of a mass effect field backed by the star-speckled black of space, on a bed far more comfortable than his own cot, with a weight in his arms that was definitely not turian in nature.

He smiled when he saw she was still asleep, curled into him, her red hair in all directions across the pillow. He shifted his arm and was able to thread his talons gently through it, neatening the mass of red, seeing that it was tinged with amber and gold. She sighed and burrowed closer, and the strange feeling welling in his chest bubbled up higher into his throat.

He took the time to look at her, mostly covered by the sheets. Her pale skin covered a deceptively slight frame; he knew the strength there, had seen her take down husks and varren with an elbow, wrangle a Claymore with amazing ease. Her mind, too, was keen, sharp; he never questioned a tactical decision, not after giving it any amount of consideration, and he knew the strength of her will, had heard her talk down krogan battlemasters, renegade turian Spectres—and then there was her biotic power, massive but not raw, keen, honed, precise, brutal.

She shifted and his gaze focused on the breast that emerged. He found his blood stirring in his groin. His reaction puzzled him: the funny lumps— _breasts, Garrus, breasts—_ weren’t inherently interesting to him. They just… existed. For feeding young. But… the sounds she made when he touched them, nibbled at them with his mouth plates, slid his rough tongue over the tips… _oh. That’s why they’re… interesting._

_Her pleasure is my pleasure, too._

The thought hadn’t occurred to him before. He’d always been attentive to those he’d taken to bed—mostly turians, though there had been an asari or two. It was one of the few ways in which he was a _very_ good turian. But the knowledge that her pleasure wasn’t just so he didn’t feel guilty later about his but because it _was_ his, too, made his stomach do funny things. Butterflies, humans called it?

Why a dairy-based condiment and insects had anything to do with his emotional response he really didn’t know.

But all this thought had done exactly nothing to calm the rush of blood to the regions below his waist and he tried not to groan, instead shifting uncomfortably. His movements made the blanket slip further and both her breasts were visible, the sheet curving down to enhance the shape of her waist, and—

“Turians, too, huh?” she mumbled sleepily.

“Ah—what?”

“Humans call it morning wood.” She yawned, stretched, and the feel of her body arching against his did _not_ help.

“What?” he repeated. Her point was made quite clear when she palmed his groin plates. “Oh, Shepard, spirits.”

“Mmm.” Her body was tucked as closely to him as she could manage; she felt languid and slow, amazed that they hadn’t been disturbed yet. “I could get used to this.”

“To what?"

“Sleeping in. With you.”

He chuckled; it came out in his subvocals as a heady rumble, and she shivered. “I’m getting used to that, too.”

“In a good way?”

“You have no idea.” She rubbed her skin gently against him. “So… how does a lady like me go about letting a turian like you know she wants you?”

“You could just… say so?”

“Mm. No, I mean… without talking.”

“You’re doing a pretty good job of it already.”

“See, with humans, you can be subtle, like this.” She proceeded to demonstrate, running her hand up his side, sliding to his chest, hooking her fingers over his cowl. “Or a little less so.” She slid her hand down his torso to his groin plates and he growled as her fingers traced them; they quivered, loosening further. “Guess that works pretty well.”

“How would… a turian like me go about letting a lady like you know _I’m_ interested?”

“Pretty much the same thing, big guy,” she said, and drew breath to continue but stopped because he’d slid his hand from her hip to her breast and was gently thumbing the tip. After lingering a moment there he ran the back of his hand down her body, over the muscled curve of her belly to her mound, turning his hand back over to set his palm over her clitoris, the tip of one of his talons just dipping inside her. “…oh.”

He chuckled and nuzzled her neck.

“You’re a… q-quick study,” she murmured, tilting her head so he had better access, whining as he let his talon slide slowly, carefully, _very very carefully, Garrus,_ inside her, thrusting gently, the rougher skin of his palm rubbing against the thin, delicate skin of her sex and she was turning to rubber in his arms. “Fuck, Garrus, I want you.”

“All this is… normal, then?”

“Huh?”

“You’re, um, wet.”

She barked out a laugh; it made her insides clench around his finger and he shuddered at the thought. “Yeah, I bet I am.” She sighed happily as he continued to tease her with his hands, his tongue, his breath. When her hand slid over his waist, sending little bolts of electricity through his body, to curve around the base of his cock, he groaned into her neck, not biting, but pressing his closed teeth against her skin.

“This normal?” she asked as she encountered the abundance of slick fluid covering him.

“Yeah.” His voice was tight as he struggled for coherent breath.

“Oh, that’s handy.” Her words were light, but he felt the muscles of her marvelous waist and low belly tensing each time he rubbed her just so, and… “Fuck it. Come here.”

“Thank the spirits,” he groaned, sliding his slick finger out of her, shifting so he was over her, settling back so he could admire the length of her body as she arranged herself.

Then she winced, and he saw the raw redness of her thighs and cursed vividly. “Shepard!”

“Thought the cybernetics would have taken care of that. Guess not.” She breathed deeply. “Maybe it’s the combination?”

“Of what? Shepard, if sex is gonna hurt you—“

“Oh, no, you don’t, Vakarian. Get your turian ass back over here.”

“I haven’t moved.”

“You were going to.”

His mandibles twitched; how did she know him so well?

“Like I said, I think it might be the chafing with the whole dextro-amino thing. You okay?”

He glanced down at his slick, ridged cock, and realized it was a little on the tender side, more than it should have been. They’d only gone one round, after all, and that had been hours ago. “Been better. Could be worse.”

“If you want to be helpful…” Garrus looked at her hopefully. “Jar behind the bathroom mirror. Mordin’s concoction.”

“You didn’t.” He was halfway across the room, though, and she couldn’t help but revel in the swirl of heat from the cradle of her hips at the sight of his vivid blue erection leading the way.

“I did. He pinned me down and started rattling on about turians and humans preferring sexual activity as forms of stress release. Garrus, _he sent me vids._ ”

“I…” Garrus stopped at the bottom of the stairs, the jar in his hand. “Wait. That was… Mordin sent those?”

Shepard grinned and took a breath, mimicking the salarian’s voice. “’Recommend caution. Warn of… chafing. Human ingestion of turian tissue could provoke allergic reaction. Anaphylactic shock possible. So don’t, ah, ingest. Also forwarding advice booklet to your quarters. Valuable diagrams, positions, erogenous zone overviews—‘”

Garrus groaned and climbed back into bed, the jar gripped firmly in one hand, the other palming a breast while his mouthplates met her lips. She laughed and squirmed beneath him, fumbling for the jar, and he moved out of her way when she sat up to apply the ointment to her inner thighs. “While we’re waiting,” she said, setting the jar beside the bed, “there are other things to do, you know.”

“I do, actually.”

“No, get back up here. You’ve already had plenty of time to play down there. My turn.”

“Didn’t he warn about _, ah, ingestion_?”

She merely grinned and set to work at his waist, exploring with her hands, mouth, tongue, _teeth_ against the pebbled hide, and he groaned. She would truly be the death of him.


	4. Eavesdrop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another music-inspired chapter. This one's "Eavesdrop", also by The Civil Wars.
> 
> www.youtube.com/watch?v=YRKLDV3TmPM
> 
> Spoilers for the Arrival DLC and end of ME2.

“Shepard, are you sure about this?”

“It’s my only choice, Garrus. I… I made a call that killed three hundred thousand civilians. Aliens. Batarians, even worse. _Three hundred thousand._ A whole system’s worth. Do you know how bad this looks?”

“Either you killed them instantly or the Reapers took them in the worst way possible, Shepard. You did what was right.”

“I know that, Garrus. You know that. My crew does. You all trust me, even if I don’t really know why.” She was pacing in front of the aquarium, hands clasped at the wrists, laying against her tailbone. “But just because I put them down before the Reapers got them doesn’t change that I killed them. Jesus.” She stopped, stared blankly at a wriggling koi. “Three hundred _thousand_ civilians.”

“Let them court-martial you later, Shepard. Preferably after you convince them the Reapers are coming. Especially if they decide they need you fighting rather than locked up and drop the whole thing. Immunity in exchange for all the Prothean nonsense in your brain?”

“I told Hackett I’m turning myself in. He has my back on this one, Garrus. Didn’t even read my report, just said he knew I knew what I was doing and was glad I hadn’t lost my sense of honor. It _looks_ like some Cerberus vitriol gone apeshit. Humanity at all costs, right? Convenient that I could blow up a system full of human-hating aliens and make it look like it wasn’t bigotry.” She resumed her intent of wearing a track into the deck. “And it really wasn’t. Anyone who’s paid attention to the fact that my crew is almost entirely alien knows that. The only alien I _don’t_ have is a batarian.”

“Don’t forget the hanar, elcor, volus—oh, or a vorcha—“

“Not exactly species suited for Spectre ops, Vakarian.” She sighed, paused, resumed pacing. “But—yeah. I’ve got a turian and a salarian playing nice with a _krogan_ in a _contained space,_ for crying out loud. _Again._ ”

“Admittedly, Grunt doesn’t quite have the grudge against salarians that, say, Wrex does.”

“Not helping.”

“Also, you’re, ah, romantically involved with said turian. Just to grind your decided lack of xenophobia right into the Illusive Man’s ashtray.”

“Still not helping.”

“Don’t forget about the geth and the quarian, too. And the unshackled AI. Those three? Now _that’s_ impressive.”

She glared.

Garrus put up his hands in mock surrender.

She was silent for a long while before she sank down on to the bed beside him, chin in her palms, elbows on her knees. “I’m gonna miss you, big guy.”

“I know.” He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. “I’d miss me, too."

“You egotist.” She poked his waist.

“Hey, be nice. I just polished that.” His hands were gentle as he tipped her chin up, rested his forehead against hers. “I’ll miss you, too, Riley. You know that.”

“I do.” Her eyes fluttered closed as he brushed a kiss against her lips. “Give me something to remember?”

“I can do that.”

 

_I don’t want to talk right now_

_I just want your arms wrapped around_

_Me in this moment_

_Before it runs out_

Garrus laid her out on the bed, gently stilling her hands as she went to the clasps of his clothes, and stood back to strip before climbing back up next to her, his nimble fingers undoing the zips and closures of her uniform, peeling her out of it, revealing her skin to his gaze. She understood that he wanted her passive, for now, and laid limply as he committed her to memory, ghosted over her skin with his breath and mouth, left talon-trails that raised pinkly above the alabaster, tended to the rosy peaks atop her breasts. She couldn’t stay limp for long, though; her body simply refused, arching and heaving and aching of its own accord under his touch.

“Oh, Garrus, please,” she moaned, softly.

_Oh don’t say that it’s over_

_Oh no say it ain’t so_

_Let’s let the stars watch_

_Let them stare_

“No,” he replied, subvocals thrumming with wry humor laced with desire. She sighed and gasped as he nuzzled between her thighs, searched for her pleasure with a singleminded focus. He’d never told her explicitly how much he enjoyed laving the sensitive flesh with his mouth, tasting every inch of her, feeling—if he was quick enough—the throbbing pulse of her orgasm around his tongue. He suspected she knew, given how he nearly always insisted on tasting her in some way, even if it was to lick his finger clean after teasing her sex before a quickie up against the aquarium or—one memorable time—in the Hammerhead. But this was one of the things that he was going to keep in his memory, all the times he’d spent breathing in her scent and tasting her so intimately, for all the lonely times ahead. And when she broke and cried out her ecstasy above him, her hands scrabbling against the bed, against the hard plates over his head, then sliding more softly over his fringe as she came down from her high, he thought she probably didn’t mind all that much. If she minded at all.

_Let the wind eavesdrop_

_I don’t care_

_For all that we’ve got, don’t let go_

_Just hold me_

He climbed into bed with her only to have her clutch at him, pressing her body tightly against his, her lips seeking for his mouth, and when they met he let his tongue tangle with hers, marveling, as usual, at the sheer difference in shape, texture, feel, and how it simply didn’t matter. Her hands knew how to touch him to make him shudder, groan, his subvocals wildly out of control, finding soft spots at the almost-satin edge of his cowl, under his fringe at the back of his skull. He’d always thought he’d need more than a human could give him when it came to this, need the rasp of talons instead of blunt nails, the ferocious strength of sinewy arms, but Shepard wasn’t merely human. And she was _Shepard_ ; his Shepard, who’d saved him from the grasping arms of Omega’s underbelly, who’d brought him home and kept him there, because home was whatever Normandy she led.

_I can’t pull you closer than this_

_It’s just you and the moon on my skin_

_Oh who says it ever has to end_

Her hands were looking for purchase against his plated hide, finding only a nail’s grip at the edges of his plates, but that grasp was enough to make him gasp and press his mouth hard against her neck, especially when her grip moved to the sensitive hide of his waist, the pebbled softness deceptively strong. She’d barely brushed her fingers over the plates at his groin before his length slid out, slick and strong and ready, and he hissed against her skin when she gripped him tight in her fist.

_Oh don’t say that it’s over_

_Oh no say it ain’t so_

_Let’s let the stars watch_

_Let them stare_

She pushed him on to his back and he let her, freeing his hands to fold a pillow under his head to protect his fringe, and she waited only until he had just gotten the pillow sorted before sinking on to him, her spine arching as he speared her, her breasts jutting out and shaking as she panted. She was always tight; her hips were narrow and she was no Amazon, perfectly average in height and frame, and Garrus was turian, after all—but this was a grip he would never forget.

She wouldn’t, either. She needed to feel the slight pain of the stretch inside her, remember exactly how every ridge felt as it rippled past her opening and opened her wider, the delicious ache of his tip against the mouth of her womb, pressing up, making a fit where there otherwise wouldn’t be one. The acute awareness of _this might be the last time_ was floating, somewhere, in her brain, pushed out of conscious awareness by a haze of pleasure, but she was committing to memory the feel of him, of _them._

A sob broke loose from her chest as Garrus met the slow rocking of her hips with a thrust from below and they found a rhythm, one as old as the ages, even if it wasn’t necessarily meant to be used in the way they did. Evolution hadn’t really put much thought into human-turian relations. It was just luck that it worked so well.

_Let the wind eavesdrop_

_I don’t care_

_For all that we’ve got, don’t let go_

_Just hold me_

He pulled her close against his chest and rolled them sideways so they faced each other, gently guiding her leg over his hip. She buried her face in his cowl, breathing deeply, and he felt the stuttering need of her heartbeat.

“Let me,” he murmured to her, stilling her with one hand against her hip, pulling her close and thrusting gently up into her softness. He marveled—again—at how deceptive her body was. Iron strength in her bones, rippling power in her muscles, covered with a snug hide that did nothing to protect her. Even now, buried deep within her, he felt the fluttering of her body, delicate enough that one wrong thrust could harm, strong enough to take him again, again, again when he was raging with battle-lust.

But for now all he wanted was to treasure her, all of her oddities that were now second nature, the feel of her body against him, alien, foreign, _perfect._

_Let’s let the stars watch_

_Let them stare_

_Let the wind eavesdrop_

_I don’t care_

And when they were curled together, sated, her body still throbbing with aftershocks, his nose buried in her hair and his hands running over her naked back, he knew, with a certainty born of seeing his own death averted many times, that for the rest of his days, there was only Shepard. He would have no one else.

And as she sighed into sleep against his skin, dreams chased away by the heat they’d made, she murmured something that sounded suspiciously like three little words he hoped he’d hear again—every day, for the rest of his days.

_For all that we’ve got, don’t let go_

_Just hold me_


	5. Separation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang on t'yer helmets, gang, this ain't a fluffy/citrusy one.

A small squad of respectful, if serious, Alliance soldiers and an official stood ready to escort her to HQ from the docking bay. Most of her squad had taken advantage of the brief shore leave at their last stop to disembark and blow away into the breeze, leaving a skeleton crew to bring the Normandy SR-2 to Earth, but Garrus was behind her when the airlock doors slid open, her remaining crew—Joker, Donnelly, Daniels, Chakwas, Gardner—standing at parade rest, filling out the rest of the airlock.

“Despite their uniforms, these people work for me,” Shepard said, chin high, spine ramrod straight, addressing the uniformed officer before her.. “They have committed no crime and are a credit to their position. I may have the Alliance to answer to, but I am still a Council Spectre. I vouch for each of them personally.”

“Their service to the Council races will be taken into account, Commander Shepard.”

“Officer on deck!” The Alliance squad and Shepard’s team, as well as the Commander herself, snapped to attention. There was no mistaking the gravelly voice which had replied to Shepard’s.

“At ease, soldiers.” Admiral Hackett stepped up to face Shepard, who relaxed into parade rest.

“Admiral, I’m honored.”

“It seemed that if we are to take our only Spectre into custody, I should probably do it myself.” A side of Hackett’s mouth curved up in a facsimile of a wry smile before somber seriousness took it away. “Commander Riley J. Shepard, you are charged with the destruction of a mass relay leading to the destruction of its system and the Aratoht batarian colony, population approximately 300,000, nearly all civilians. You will remain detained under fully supervised house arrest for the duration of the investigation into your actions. As a good-faith condition of this detainment, you will also surrender the Normandy SR-2 to the Alliance.”

Sharp inhales from those who hadn’t learned the extent of her silent trip into the batarian prison—which was most of her crew besides Garrus, Chakwas, and Joker—broke the stilted silence. She felt Joker’s distinct unhappiness somewhere behind her to her left; surrendering the Normandy was clipping his wings. He knew the alternative was worse, trusted his Commander, but… damn. There was no Moreau without the Normandy. And EDI… they’d worked out a contingency plan to keep her safe, but there was still a risk.

“I understand and agree to this arrangement, Admiral.”

“Please surrender your sidearm.”

An Alliance squadmember stepped forward to take it, but Shepard had already turned to the turian beside her, and the Admiral waved the private back. Shepard pulled out her Phalanx, looking at it one last time. She handed it to Garrus, who took it with only slightly shaking talons. “Keep it,” she told him, quietly. “Good luck charm.”

“Only if you promise to come and get it.”

Shepard’s composure cracked, a little. “I’ll try.”

“Do better than try.” _I love you, Riley,_ his throat tried to say instead, but he held it tight; his subvocals were clear as a bell, though, and he hoped she understood, somehow.

She took a deep breath, lifted her chin again, and faced the Admiral, jerking her chin in a sharp nod before stepping forward. Garrus watched as she strode off, led by the Admiral and flanked by two privates, only halfway listening to the official talking to the rest of the crew behind him, informing them of the arrangements made. Chakwas—who’d managed, as always, to pull the whole thing off without overstepping a line of regulations, and was free to go—came to stand next to him.

“She’ll be alright, Garrus.”

“I know.” _I might not be, though._

 _“_ When this whole thing blows over and she goes out there again—if she hasn’t found me already, make sure I get an invitation, will you?”

“Yeah. I will.”

Later, a shuttle took him to the Citadel, and from there he returned to Palaven—alone.

 

Solana had guilted him into staying at the Vakarian home instead of the spare apartment offered to him now that he was “Senior Reaper Advisor”.

What a joke.

A token title for a token turian just to shut him up.

He had half a dozen aborted attempts at contacting Shepard cluttering his terminal, all of them discarded for various reasons. Practical realization that she probably wasn’t allowed outside communication and, if she was, whatever he sent would be thoroughly inspected by any number of others, first, so whatever he sent would have to be appropriately friendly, nothing more, and what if that made her think he changed his mind? That led to anxiety—what if _she’d_ had a change of heart?

So, well into the second month of his time on Palaven, he was sitting at the desk in his room, his face in his palms—a habit acquired from Shepard—and stewing over the possibilities when Solana pushed the door open and leaned against the doorframe.

“What’s with you, Garrus?”

“Just tired.” He sighed, trying to inject truth into the reflexive reply. “Worried. We’re not doing anything near enough to prepare for the Reapers.”

“You’d know, I guess.” Solana sounded hesitant. “Senior Reaper Advisor that you are.”

Garrus shook his head. “Don’t give me that, Sol.”

“I dunno, Garrus. It just seems like the only people who’ve ever seen evidence that they’re coming and are as big a threat as you say they are are compromised, somehow.”

“Were with Shepard, you mean.” His subvocals were tightly held, but he knew Solana would be able to tell that he was rapidly nearing the end of his temper.

“You have to admit, she’s done some things that are a little…”

There was a thump; Garrus’s chair had toppled as he shot to his feet. “Don’t you _dare_ , Solana. Don’t talk about things you don’t know anything about.”

“Garrus, she worked for _Cerberus_. She was gone for two years—let everyone think she was dead, and then she resurfaced with a terrorist organization at her back. Who knows what she did for them while she was supposed to be dead? And the Alpha Relay?”

Garrus’s fist pounded into the desk; it creaked. “Solana. She _was dead._ ”

“So she’d have you believe.”

“Solana. _We watched her die._ Joker saw her suit vent, saw her struggling, we all saw her get pulled into Alchera’s gravity well and light up. Cerberus took her _corpse_ and brought her back. It took them two years. I’ve seen her scars, Sol, the cybernetics that are holding her together. And I can’t tell you very much—a hell of a lot of it is seriously, seriously classified—but I don’t disagree with a damn thing she’s done that I know about. And that includes putting herself between my rifle and my target.”

Solana looked at him for a long time. “What happened to you, Garrus? You just… disappeared, after. Left C-Sec again—Dad’s still bitter about that, by the way—and… poof.”

Garrus sighed. “I don’t want to revisit it, Sol. I was trying to do the impossible and, surprise, I couldn’t.” He reached out and picked up the Phalanx on his desk, cradling it in his hands. “I planned on dying, there. Almost did.” He reached up and tapped his scarred mandible. “Then the only person who could save me showed up.”

“Shepard.”

“Without her they would have had me. Almost did anyway.”

“What happened?”

“Gunship. As Shepard puts it, ‘a rocket to the face’.” He snorted. “Not wrong, either.”

“Garrus. That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. Not going to tell you.”

She was silent for a long moment. “Since when do you carry a Phalanx?”

“I don’t.”

“It’s hers.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you do it again?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There’s a _lot_ I’m not telling you.”

“She killed three hundred thousand civilians, Garrus. Batarians, but still civilians.”

“You’re not going to believe anything I say about it, Sol.”

“Try me.”

A deep breath. “The relay she destroyed was the first one the Reapers were going to hit.”

Pulsing silence in reply.

“It’s the ruthless calculus, Sol. Condemn a system, save ten more.” _Lose ten billion here to save twenty billion there._ “They were dead either way. By Reapers? Horrible, awful deaths. We don’t even know how awful. An exploding relay? Instant, no warning. She tried, though. She tried to warn them so they could evac. But comms were out. And it bought us time.”

“To do what?”

“Hell if I know.” _I do know. I’ve been there._ “Something. Anything.”

“How long?”

“Not long enough.”

“Ruthless calculus.”

“Yeah.”

“So why do you have her Phalanx?”

A beat. “She promised to come back for it.”

Sol’s eyes narrowed, momentarily. “That all?”

 _She promised to come back for_ me _._ “No.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“Don’t be that way.”

Silence, rapidly growing awkward.

“You said you’d seen her scars.”

This was going into territory Garrus wasn’t comfortable sharing, not yet. He sidestepped. “Not much privacy on a frigate, Sol.”

“You’re not supposed to look.”

Garrus replied with a guilty silence.

“Oh, spirits, Garrus, you _didn’t._ ”

His tenuously held subvocals suddenly blew wild, careening from fury to desperation, and he clutched the Phalanx, looking down at it before closing his eyes. And—in a move he never would have expected—Sol carefully put her arms around him, pulled him into some variety of soothing, sisterly hold.

“You didn’t just, did you?” she said, quietly, subvocals sad for him. “It was more.”

“Yes,” he choked, his throat moaning in agony and loss.

“She knows?”

“Yes. No. Maybe. I… I hope so.”

Sol let go and looked at the Phalanx in his hands, running the back of a gloved talon over it. “I think she knows.”

“Good luck charm?”

“More.”

Garrus heaved a shuddering breath, trying to inflate his staggering lungs.

“C’mon, Reaper Advisor,” she said, trying to put a smile in her voice. “You missed dinner.”


	6. Reunion

Shepard wasn’t going to say otherwise: being aboard the Normandy—which had been mid-retrofit to be Anderson’s mobile command center, no less—while Earth burned was awful in every way.

Her crew was scrambling. Only Joker and Vega knew what they were doing, really, and maybe Cortez. Nearly everyone else had never seen battle, had never done what they were being asked to do, had never served in their new capacities aboard a frigate. And this wasn’t just battle. It was Reapers.

Goddamnfucking _REAPERS._

She’d picked up Liara once again on Mars, only to lose Kaidan to the undercover AI whose shell now occupied the AI Core. _God, Kaidan. It’s been a long time, but…_ fuck. _He took a beating._

Honestly, she thought she'd  _actually_ lost him. Would have without Vega's timely, necessary, lifesaving, completely idiotic crash of a shuttle. She'd let Cortez give him the chewing out for that one, just leaving him with a 'don't  _ever_ do that again.'

Shepard ran a hand through her hair, the red and gold longer than the chin-length it used to be. She’d let it grow with six months of confinement. _Gotta deal with that._

She gripped the railing before the galaxy map until it almost started to whine under her mostly-cybernetic hands, her biotics flickering blue pinpricks under her skin. It took focus and an audible exhale to let the railing go, the joins of metal and bone underneath her flesh creaking with the strain.

“Commander?”

Shepard twitched, then turned her head to the right; she couldn’t _see_ Traynor, but her ear was directly towards the specialist, now—even though she could have heard her with walls between them, what with the implants that were her eardrums. It was just a motion of acknowledgement. She didn’t really want to… talk.

“I’m picking up some chatter.”

“Who?”

“Turian, I think. It’s pretty mangled. EDI is untangling it—“

 _Analysis complete, Specialist,_ EDI intoned.

“It’s… pretty garbled. Mostly static.” Traynor fell silent, listening again. “Palaven’s in trouble. There’s something about the moon.”

“Menae.” Shepard sighed. “Joker, ETA?”

“ _Twenty-four minutes_.”

“Be ready. Chatter’s not good. Vega, Liara, suit up. Cortez—“

“ _Prepping the Kodiak for a combat drop, Commander._ ”

Shepard turned to Traynor. “Keep your ears open.”

“Anything specific, ma’am?”

“Anything detailed. We’re after the Primarch, but we’ll take any intel we can get.”

“Aye-aye.” Traynor focused on the instrumentation in front of her again; Shepard headed to the elevator, riding it down to the shuttle bay. Vega was rechecking his weapons; she ignored Cortez at his workstation besides the locker as she shrugged out of her flightsuit and began the process of armoring herself. She’d go to lengths to avoid being in just her undersuit in front of Vega—the marine flirted enough with her already—but Cortez she wasn’t worried about.

“Commander,” he said before returning to his work.

“Cortez,” she replied with a brief smile.

“Your gear’s on the bench. Checked it over for you.”

“Thanks.” Pistol, shotgun and SMG were laid out for her; her practiced hands checked them all once more, then loaded a fresh heatsink in each. They slid with an efficient _click_ into their holsters. She turned and Liara was there, loading heatsinks and holstering her own weapons, and Vega was walking over when Joker called over the comm.

“ _Brace for evasive maneuvers!”_

“Get us down there, Joker!”

“ _Workin’ on it, Commander!”_

They were tense as Normandy danced under Joker’s hands; she quieted and they took the chance to make a break for the Kodiak. Cortez eased her out of Normandy’s shuttle bay over Menae and made a break for the moon.

“Gonna be a tight one, Commander.”

“I know.”

Tense minutes passed as Cortez maneuvered the shuttle to a suitable LZ. “Get yourself out of here,” Shepard told him as the Kodiak shivered, beginning a strictly downward descent.

“Copy. I’ll stay in comm range.”

“Good.” Shepard fastened her helmet securely and hopped out of the shuttle, her SMG ready in her hands, Liara and Vega on her heels. Vega was turning out to be a solid soldier; his playful attitude to life in general quieted on the battlefield. Liara, of course, was a powerful biotic. She wanted a tech expert at her back, though; while all of them could manage, thanks to top-of-the-line omnitools, there was no substitute for a tech genius like Tali or a specialist like Garrus.

Her heart ached and gut twisted at the thought of him, at Palaven burning, untold colonies destroyed, Menae huddled in the looming shadows.

“ _Bogey incoming!”_

_“Husks on your three!”_

Shepard’s chin snapped up and she lifted her weapon. A Singularity blurred her sights a few yards ahead, making shots through it murky, but it funneled the husks into a tidy line against a nearby rock face. They dropped neatly one by one, picked off by the twin reports of SMG and assault rifle, herded by honed biotics. They continued onward, jogging towards where the turian camp should be.

There were far too many bodybags—and there weren’t even that many bodies left to bag after fights against giant lasers. “By the goddess,” Liara breathed. Shepard agreed with the sentiment, but was too busy swallowing down the buildup of saliva in her mouth that accompanied the bile attempting to rise up her throat. _Garrus. Please, please, please be alive._

General Corinthus had nothing but bad news. “Primarch Fedorian’s dead. Shuttle was shot down an hour ago.”

“Turian hierarchy decides the next Primarch; who is it?”

“I don’t know,” the general said, quietly. “Comms are down and the chain of command is blown to pieces. Too many dead.”

“We’ll get your comms up, General.”

“I’d be grateful. They’re just over the ridge.”

They scrambled up a ladder to the armaments and had taken out another drop’s worth of husks when a gravelly roar broke the momentary silence.

“ _Dios!”_

A sudden shockwave knocked Shepard free of her perch, toppling her off the edge; she landed hard and scrambled to get up again, looking around wildly for the enemy that was searching for her. A brute, her helmet display told her. The thing was _massive._ Automatically she dodged and rolled as she swapped her SMG for her shotgun, hefted it, fired, winced as the kickback bruised her collarbone. _Damn. Training for six months with a Katana leaves something to be desired._

It closed on her, swinging madly, and she focused for a second, corralling the buildup of power in her amp, before hitting the Charge. She flew forward in a cascade of blue streaks, hitting the brute’s flank hard. It lost its momentum, stumbled backwards, took more damage from the fire peppering it from behind. Panting hard Shepard fired again, again, again while her amp cooled, then roared and flew forward again, free arm coming up in an instinctive attempt to shelter her face as her biotics hurled her into the monster before her.

This time it groaned and shuddered, and a final shotgun blast left it to fall. Shepard staggered, swapping shotgun for SMG once more, picking off a husk that was lurching towards her. For a long moment she leaned against a rock, dizzy from the repeated Charges, her veins bathed in adrenaline, biotic aftershocks, pain.

“ _Dios,_ she’s a monster,” Vega muttered to Liara as they approached. “You alright, Lola?”

Shepard straightened and nodded. “Now I _know_ I’ve been sitting on my ass for the last six months.” She rolled her bruised shoulder. “Shit.”

They jogged off, heading for the relay. “You went to the gym and the range every day. Twice, sometimes. I should know, I had to keep up with you.”

“Complaining, Vega?”

“Nah.”

“You can’t really train for heavy biotics like Charge,” Liara commented. “Especially against that monstrosity.”

“You shoulda seen how many heavy bags she destroyed. I was impressed, but—“

“Those were nothing.”

“Clearly. _Husk!”_

The next few moments were broken only by gunfire.

“You’re slacking, Vega!”

“You didn’t let me get a shot in, Lola!”

“Aw. We’ll find more for you to shoot, I’m sure."

Shepard sent Liara off to repair the tower while she and Vega provided cover, taking down wave after wave of husks, bantering all the while. They double-timed it back to the camp, where Shepard’s stomach twisted again. Among all these turians, dual-toned voices doing something to her bones, she couldn’t tamp down her anxiety. What if—

And then even the general was standing a little sharper, the commanders around him at attention, and there was a voice that set her knees to jelly, subvocals that made her skin buzz, her biotics try to flare brightly over her skin.

Corinthus acknowledged him—“Vakarian,” in a shining, respectful tone—but she didn’t hear, because her eyes were meeting his and his hand was outstretched in a decidedly human and definitely not turian gesture and she took it, intent on shaking it and trying so, _so_ hard not to throw herself at him, but when he took her hand and held it between his— _this is not just a nod to my being human this is a nod to_ us _oh, god, I can’t breathe—_

“Shepard,” he said, softly, and it was by some miracle that she held it together, because she was saying something proper, normal, not blathering what she wanted to _(oh, Garrus, I missed you, so much, you have no idea, six months without you? I wanted the world to end, please, kiss me, touch me, remind me)_ and then the general said something which prompted her brain to return to reality.

“Victus is the new Primarch.”

“Victus? I was with him earlier. I’ll help you find him.” There was firm decision in Garrus’s tone, one that Shepard wasn’t used to. Apparently in the intervening months he’d more than made up for being a bad turian.

_“Commander? We’ve got a situation up here. EDI’s going nuts.”_

“Copy. I can’t come up just yet, Joker—Liara’s coming.”

_“Roger that.”_

“Liara, I need you to go back up. Vega, you’re with me.” Liara nodded and headed back towards the LZ, talking with Cortez over the comm. “Lead the way, Garrus. We’ve got a Primarch to find.”

 

Long hours later, back aboard the Normandy, Shepard stood outside the main battery for several long moments, hesitating, before she moved to palm the green-lit sensor and grant herself entry. His voice echoed softly as she entered; he was talking to the Primarch over the intercom, body hidden in the shadows of the Thanix, and she waited by the door until his conversation ended.

He was hesitant, too, in ways he hadn’t been on Menae when he’d been unmistakably forward in a bad-turian-sort-of-way. She could feel the subtle vibrations of his subharmonics _wanting_ , wanting to get closer to her, touch her without the armor between them, the physical plating and the mantles of command alike.

“I’ve done a lot of… heh, research,” he said, clumsily, his mandibles flickering. “But there wasn’t, well, much on reunions.”

 _To hell with it,_ she said, reacting on a split instinct, and reached up to press her lips to his mouth. He sighed as she settled back onto her feet again, the quiver of concern shifting to a quiver of… something rather more physical. Like the desire to do that again, again, again, up against the Thanix, then the wall, his cot, if it was empty the table in the mess, the elevator—

“ _That’s_ the protocol on reunions,” she murmured, and he snapped back to reality. “I wouldn’t mind that, though, either.”

“I, uh, huh… yeah.” He suddenly relaxed his features into the turian version of a goofy grin, and Shepard’s heart did somersaults and backflips inside her chest. It made her lungs hitch and a now-predictable curl of heat spiral between her hips. The corners of her mouth spread in answer, smiling at him; she put a hand on his cheek and stretched up to kiss him again, and he met her partway, wrapped an arm around her firmly, and suddenly that train of thought—again, again, _again—_ was beginning, and…

The intercom. Garrus groaned, the sound running down her spine, heat washing along behind it to rest at her very core, and he chuckled as she shivered. “You’re getting predictable, Shepard.”

“Mm?”

“I’ll try to stop by. You know, return the favor. Later this evening?”

It would be much later, what with the nonsense going on, handling the Primarch, the dalatrass, Wrex, Hackett, Anderson, Traynor (thank God for small mercies—the specialist needed a healthy dose of positive reinforcement, but she was _good)_ , the terminal, asking Liara yet again for any updates on Kaidan, the goddamned beeping terminal again and dinner (dinner? oh, the protein bar and bottle of water between elevator rides) before she stumbled to her quarters—ferchrissakes the terminal _again?—_

 _“_ I think you’ve had enough for one day, Riley,” Garrus said from where he sat watching the empty fishtank, and she dropped her water, the barely-fastened cap promptly popping off and spilling liquid all down the stairs. “Hm. Guess I’ve still got it.”

“Got what, precisely?” She was prepared to be a lot grumpier with him than that, but he was already poking through mostly-empty cabinets to find a towel or something to clean up the mess.

“Sniper’s skillset.” He’d found a stack of cleaning cloths by the weapons bench and brought a few with him. “It’s a good thing you aren’t one, maybe. I suppose reflexes like that aren’t all bad when you’re brandishing around a shotgun and smashing people with blue lightning.”

“It’s harnessed dark energy, not _lightning_ ,” she replied, pouting, trying to find the energy to be truly irritated but falling short. He shook his head as he wiped away water on her boot before standing, tossing the cloths into the laundry."

“Always have to have the last word. Some things never change.” He took the empty bottle from her, set it on her desk, and stepped closer to her. “Come here.”

When he slid his arms around her, the tension around and between them ebbed; she half-collapsed against him. “Garrus,” she whispered, throat aching.

He knew it wasn’t a question, merely a response to the need to say his name, verify that he was real, there, with her. “Yeah. I know. I’m here.”

They lay together beneath the sheets, the lavish cabin far less classy than it had been the last time he’d seen it what with the half-finished retrofits, exhaustion and the clock demanding they sleep, but neither of them finding it.

“We could always count sheep, I suppose,” Shepard mumbled into Garrus’s chest, more or less out of nowhere.

“Hm? Sheep?”

“Earth animal. Human idiom. So boring it’s supposed to put you to sleep.”

“Mm.”

They were silent again for a while.

“Riley?”

“Yeah?”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, big guy.” 

There was more to both of their words—six months’ worth of talk and feelings tempered by weeks of frustration, days of exhaustion, and a deeply foreboding sense of what was to come—but somehow, after that, they were able to find sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to pipe in with OMG 45 KUDOS OVER 1000 VIEWS YOU PEOPLE. I LOVE YOU. You validate the hibbery-jibbery nonsense of words that wobbles around in my gray matter until my fingers manage to make it into shapes on a computer screen. Which apparently you all understand?? (Does not compute.)
> 
> Anyway, thank you. <3


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